The Unauthorized Biography of Rosco P. Coltrane

When it's my moment in the sun, I won't forget that I am blessed, but every hero walks alone, thinking of more things to confess

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Location: Owensboro, Kentucky, United States

One Word: UNSTOPPABLE AWESOMENESS!!!

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Another Footnote

Dirty Cat Urine...This was what Scott Weiland, former lead singer of Stone Temple Pilots, described the coke that you can buy nowadays in an interview in April issue of Esquire. So I can't take credit for the reference.

Oh yeah, thanks John for actually reading this. I think you might be the only one.

An Unfortunate Omission

A few days ago I posted about bad 90's music and somehow forgot to mention some of the worst pop music from the 90's.

I apologize to everyone for forgetting about Mariah Carey. The scope of bad 90's music can't be judged properly without the lady that loved to wear next to nothing and hit those notes that simulate a dog whistle.

Again, my utmost apologies.

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

2,4,6,8, Who Do We Appreciate?

I went to Cici's Pizza last night. I always forget that I tell myself I am never going there again. It's like crack I guess. As much cheap pizza and sweet tea as you can stand. That and a bunch of kids running around screaming. I don't understand what they put in the air conditioning at Cici's that makes small children scream like they are having digits ripped off. Then that girl that makes the little balloon animals comes over and tries to give them a red wiener dog balloon, which can somehow get an extra 25 decibels out of a child's mouth.

Last night, fortunately, the place was packed and no balloon animals in sight.

But there was a soccer team there. Still sweaty and in shinguards. There was one kid in front of me, he was getting a drink. I was just waiting to get some ice. This kid put about half a Dr. Pepper in his glass. Then he added some Coca-Cola. Then a finger or two of Mt. Dew. Then a splash of Root Beer. He was beaming.

We used to call them "Suicides" though I don't really know why they were called them. But I remember after every Little League game, that was the cool thing to get. Everyone always got a drink and a hot dog that they had not sold. Everyone had their own mixtures. Usually one of the kids whose mom or dad was working the concession stand would go back there and mix drinks. Taking orders like an elementary school Tom Cruise in Cocktail. Throwing ice in cups while eating a Bonker (Which by the way, Bonkers was such a great candy, I wish it was still around) or a Skittle thrown through the air. It was a position of power. It was a position that was cool.

But the thing I remember most about "Suicides" is that they tasted horrible. I never understood why anyone would drink them. Except for the fact that it was cool to order them. Why anyone would waste a perfectly good Dr. Pepper is beyond me. Dr. Pepper is God's nectar. Why would you want to put Mt. Dew and Root Beer in it? Why is it still cool? Is it because it is nasty and tastes like dirty cat urine?

I don't know. And I am sure those 8 years still drinking them don't know either.

Monday, April 11, 2005

Larry Brown--The Late and Great Southern American Writer

Resides--Tula, Mississippi
Known Since--A Writing Course at Ole Miss in 1998

His accent was unmistakable. It was deep and had formed long ago somewhere in the backwoods of North Mississippi. It was what some people would call rich, but I would call dark. Not really low. But slow and all-knowing. The knowledge that no one enjoys to really know, much less understand.

I remember reading his book of short stories called Facing the Music the semester before I was in his class. I remember reading one story and thinking, man this is like a bad horror story. It was easy to see what was going to happen and there was nothing you could do to get the character to stop.

I never told Larry that, but I like to think that he would have laughed.

He was a former firefighter. He saw things and wrote about them. They were surely nightmares and horrors. He had to live with those images and thoughts. I can read his books and realize that they are fiction, and think that it is all made up. But I am sure Larry could never really see his writings like that because he knew what was true and what wasn't. When Larry would write about having to extract someone from a horrible wreck with the jaws of life, it wasn't imagined. It was real.

We met a few times during the semester. We talked about a lot of things and he recommended a lot of authors to me. I remember one time I had a story due in his class. I had started on a pretty lame story about a farmer trying to kill a tomcat and never really saw where the story was going. So I tore the story in pieces and burned on my grill. I told Larry about this and he laughed.

"Yeah, I did that once too."

"Really?"

"Yeah," he paused and asked, "did it make you feel any better?"

"Nope"

"Yeah, it never does."

Larry was a good person. He had a family. He had his farm. He had his writing. He had us all in the way that he could spin a story and make you care about people who you usually see at a grocery store and try not to make any eye contact with. They might be dirty, might smell, might be drunk or stoned or in pain or in love so bad that they want to murder someone. Maybe they have already murdered someone. Larry wrote about these people and made them humans and made them the monsters that they are and that we all are. He forced us to look at them, at ourselves.